


Keep the Customer Satisfied

by NyxEtoile, OlivesAwl



Series: Somewhere They Can't Find Me [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Light Dom/sub, POV Alternating, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 13:06:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1859103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyxEtoile/pseuds/NyxEtoile, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OlivesAwl/pseuds/OlivesAwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Clint locked the door, and put the vodka away. "You okay with this?" he asked.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Nat waited at the kitchen door for him to reach her. "I am. I meant what I said. Been a long time since I dealt with something this black and white."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"Might be fun. Keep the muscles from getting atrophied."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And so begins the next chapter in Nat and Clint's adventures in being off the grid. They explore their relationship further, learn how to actually talk, and help out a guy in over his head.
> 
> This fic will update weekly on Fridays.

The sort of places where people who were theoretically fugitives could hide successfully from whatever government was looking for them tended to be. . .unstable. Corruption, crime, political upheaval. Venezuela was no exception.

Especially the crime part.

"I want all your money. Right now."

Clint Barton just wanted to close his bar, and go upstairs to his wife and his bed. He did not want some stupid, sweaty kid waving a gun in his face. Stupid, because Clint was still behind the bar. The guy couldn't see either of his hands. He could have a gun in one hand and a knife in the other—which he now did. Still, he really didn't feel like killing anyone tonight. That was part of their thing here. "You're not getting my money, kid." He paused. "You want a drink?" 

The kid blinked. "Wh—No, I don't want a drink. I'm robbing you!"

"No, you're really not." He wondered if he sounded as tired and exasperated as he felt. Not to mention, old. The kid didn't look old enough to shave, let alone rob someone. "There's a few ways this can go, but none of them end with you getting my money. The most pleasant is the one where you have a drink with me. So, I'll ask again. You want a drink?"

He stared for a moment, like he was considering it, or stunned into silence. Then he pointed his weapon again. "I've got a gun."

"I don't want to get all Crocodile Dundee on you, but that's not. . ." He sighed. "You have a .38 Special revolver. You're fifteen feet away, and your hand is shaking. You couldn't drop me with it if it was daylight in here, which it's not, and it depresses me that you don't know that." He caught movement in the corner of his eye, in the shadows near the door. "I've got a Remington 12 gauge back here that could kill you if a monkey fired it. Don't make me shoot my wife."

The kid frowned, his mouth opening, just as Natasha cracked him over the head.

Clint sighed, watching him crumple. "We're going to have to kill one, you know. They'll keep trying until we do."

She stepped over the kid, tossing her baton onto the bar. "There are ways to send messages without killing," she protested, though she didn't sound entirely convinced. "We just need a more serious threat than Shaky Junkie Number 5."

"I could mount a howitzer on the roof.

She rolled her eyes. "We don't have access to that sort of gear anymore."

He came around the bar to drag the kid outside. "You don't think I could find one in Caracas? I'm pretty sure there's a guy selling tanks."

"It might spook the legitimate customers," she said patiently. She hopped over the bar to grab the envelope with that night's take in it and turn the neon off so they could go to bed once they'd dealt with the punk.

He carried the guy out to the street and dumped him there, then came back inside. "I need to break out the bow," he told her. "It freaks people out."

"That's true." She scooped up her baton as he locked the door. "I know we should probably just kill one, but it seems like swatting a fly with a tank. None of them are an actual threat."

"Are you suggesting we make trouble?" He let her walk up the stairs ahead of him, because he enjoyed the view. "It's possibly we're only getting idiots because the pros know how to read people that can handle themselves." Nat was excellent at concealing her capabilities. He really was not. He still cased every room, every location, looking for tactical positions, exits, and perches. He sized up every person he met, and he didn't miss the ones returning the favor. Coulson had once told him that he couldn't even nod casually.

She opened their apartment door and crouched to put her baton in the hall closet, giving him another excellent view. "I think that's likely. I don't know if making trouble will help. Punks like that are transient. Drifting in and out of the city. They aren't around long enough to hear who's trouble or not." She tossed their envelope onto the table and wound her arms around his neck. "We may be stuck dealing with the idiots."

"Like a tax." He bent his head to kiss her neck. "Did I tell you that down there was hot?"

"Was it?" she murmured. She stroked her hands through his hair. He'd let it grow out a bit, because she seemed to adore it. She scraped her nails along his scalp, sending a shudder through him. "Being turned on by violence explains a lot about our relationship."

"No," he murmured. "Just you." He didn't feel like talking anymore, so he scooped her up and carried her back to bed.

Clint woke the next morning to bright sun, salty breeze and the sound of his wife singing a Russian lullaby as she cooked breakfast. He rolled onto his back, soaking in the normalcy of it all. There had been times—many times—he thought he'd be dead before he had a life like this. He was still surprised by it now and then.

He lifted his hand to look at the scuffed gold band on his finger. Nat had picked it out, a simple, matte gold ring. She'd told him shiny would just looked scratched quicker. The matte showed the scuffs, but it looked weathered rather then ruined. He liked it. Liked how it looked on his finger. They'd bought it months ago, at the beginning of the summer. It was coming on fall now, what little tourists there had been were tapering off. No one had come to look for them other than Coulson. Nat kept up with their friends via email. And the biggest complaint he had was the annoying punks that tried to rob them occasionally.

The bedroom door creaked open and Nat came in with two cups of coffee in one hand and two plates balanced on the other arm. She grinned when she saw him awake. "Oh, rats. I was hoping I could wake you up the fun way."

He sat up. "I'm really curious how eggs and bacon were going to be integrated into that plan."

She put the plates on the side table and handed him the coffee. "They were for later. To keep up your strength." She leaned close to kiss him. She tasted of the overly sweet hazelnut creamer she put in her coffee.

"They'd have been cold," he commented when she lifted her head.  She made a little noise of exasperation and popped a piece of bacon in her mouth. "I don't think you'd have complained."

"No, but I can also wait for the inevitable result of your beach reading." He had no idea the actual contents of Nat's paperbacks. They were in a variety of languages, but none of them English. All he knew was she'd lay out in a bikini for an hour or so reading under her umbrella, then come back to the bar and—sometimes quite literally—scale him.

It was the best damn part of his day.

"Mmm. I just got a new one. Short stories." Her eyes went dark and her smile was wicked as she sipped her coffee. "Should give me all manner of ideas."

He ate his eggs. "I was going to do some manual labor while you're laying on the beach. Maybe get ourselves some rooms to rent by Christmas."

"Do you need help? I'm willing to sacrifice my beach time for productivity."

"No way, I enjoy it as much as you."

"Mmm. Maybe afterwards." She nibbled her breakfast, seemingly more interested in her coffee than the food. "You think we're ready to have other people around? Renting the rooms?"

"I don't know. I hate people. But somehow I'm a bartender, so. . ." He shrugged. "We don't have to make a decision on that. Be nice to have them at least habitable if we need an extra source of cash."

She nodded, apparently accepting that. She put her plate on the night stand and settled next to him, propped against the headboard to finish her coffee. She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. Clint enjoyed the quiet mornings, planning their days. It was reminiscent of the old days, keeping the other posted on location and itinerary, but now it was about lying on the beach or fixing holes in the floor. 

His thoughts were interrupted by her hand on his thigh. "I think the red and black bikini today."

He kissed her hair. "I will be doing my patching shirtless."

"I will be sure to factor that into any mental images I get while reading." She drained her coffee and kissed him again, deliberately climbing over him as she got out of bed again. "Better get dressed," she murmured, sauntering towards the bathroom.

Their days had a certain predictable rhythm to them, and that day wasn't much different—though the afternoon rendezvous did end up involving more splinters in his back than he'd wanted. She'd barely let him turn the saw off. She had to pick them out with tweezers, which reminded him of the night after the Battle of New York.

After the first aid and a change of clothes, she stayed up in the rooms with him, helping measure and hammer. When dusk came they cleaned up and headed downstairs to tend bar and serve. She wore a skimpy tank top and microscopic shorts, raking in tips and dodging drunken hands nimbly. The only time she blew her civilian cover was when someone managed to land a pinch or ass smack. Willing as he was to defend her honor, it was way more fun to watch her do it herself.

Nat clocked out after midnight, taking her tips upstairs and bringing back some food for him to work on while he finished the night. They made enough, in theory, to get another bartender, but for now he liked doing it himself. If the crowd kept up even in the cooler weather he'd think about getting someone part time. 

After he closed and locked up, he went in the back to count the till. Then he took the trash out because someone had puked in the can. There he encountered a shaky looking dude, pointing a gun at him. Again.

It was, as far as he could tell—the guy was waving it around— a .22 Ruger. Maybe the universe was mocking him. This was Venezuela. Couldn't anyone locate any decent firepower? This was the second night in a row, and Clint wasn't in the mood. He put the trash in the can, closed the lid, and faced the guy. 

"I want all your cash," he said.

Given the robbery attempts and general abysmal crime rate, Clint tucked his 1911 in the back of his jeans whenever he was somewhere after dark, including just taking out the trash. It wasn't as intimidating as the shotgun, but it would do. So he pointed it at the guy's head. "I am really getting sick of this shit. _Drop it._ "

To his complete and utter surprise, the guy did. The gun hit the ground and his face crumpled as if on the verge of tears. "Please," he whispered. "Please don't. I'm sorry. Please, they'll kill them if I don't pay. Please."

Slowly Clint lowered his gun. "Who?" he asked, though he had a sinking feeling he knew the answer he was going to get. Kidnapping was a booming business in this part of the world.

"My wife, my daughter. The cartel took them two days ago. They want two hundred and fifty thousand dollars and I can't—" Now he did break into tears, covering his eyes with a hand.

He tucked his gun in the back of his pants. "Come in," he said. He stepped back and opened the door. "You want a drink?"

The guy gaped at him a moment, too stunned to do anything else. "I. . . yes." He took one hesitant step, then another, apparently realizing Clint was serious. "I could really use a drink."

He sat him at the bar, poured him some of their house vodka, and set the bottle next to the glass. "Usually they leave the locals alone," he said. Unless there were other issues at play. In no way did Clint want to get in the middle of a cartel turf war—or internal discipline.

The man curled his hand around his drink. "I was born here, but I've been in the States for over a decade. I work for a landscaping company. I met my wife, Jess, when we redid her father's summer home. He didn't approve." He knocked back the vodka. "I make good money but I wasn't their kind. He threatened to cut her off and followed through when we got married. She hoped a grandchild would change things but they've never even met Gabby. We're happy though. We came down so my parents could meet Jess and Gabby."

"And they saw a rich white woman, and made some assumptions." Though, if he thought about it for a moment, they probably hadn't seen a rich white woman, not as rich as her family likely was. Or they'd have asked for a lot more. They got six million for the mistress of a Roxxon Oil exec a couple of years ago. "Did you call the embassy?"

"They told me they'd kill them if I did."

"Of course the did. Okay. Stay here. I'm going to go get my wife."

*

Nat sat across the table from the man as he told his story one more time. His name was Enrique. He'd had dinner with his wife, daughter and local family at a restaurant in town. On the drive back to the hotel they'd run into detour signs that sent them down an alley. There, men with guns had pulled his wife and daughter out of the car and shoved them into a van. When he'd tried to fight he'd been struck hard enough to black out. When he'd woken up, he had a strange phone in his pocket. Texts on the phone had given him instructions.

"All right," she said, using her calm, reasonable voice. He was reaching for the vodka again. This would be his fifth and last. More and he was going to be sick and useless. "Did you see or speak to anyone earlier in the day who might have known who your wife and her father were?"

Enrique shook his head. "No. We didn't talk with anyone. The hotel clerk, a waiter. A man running a gift shop. No one we told our names to. Jess changed her name to mine. Even if they saw her driver's license. . ."

Nat looked over at Clint, then sighed and asked, "Who in your family knew your schedule?"

"I don't know. Everyone." He looked up at them. "No. None of them could have been involved with this."

She hated robbing people of naive illusions. She really did. "You are describing a very well-planned and target-specific kidnapping. They weren't looking for just any tourist to grab. They wanted your wife and daughter. Because they thought they would be worth a quarter of a million to someone. From what you're saying, only your family would know who your wife was, where she would be, and when."

"I can't believe that. I just can't." But she could see his shoulders slumping. "My younger brother has. . . fallen in with a bad crowd. My mother is worried about him. There are no jobs around here."

It was good to know her instincts were still spot on. "When do they want the money?"

"They gave me a week. That was two days ago."

Five more days. That was entirely doable. She looked over at Clint and arched a brow in question. She was pretty sure of the answer, given he'd come up to get her to listen to this. But it was important to check in before committing to things. He nodded, once. She smiled a little and looked back at Enrique. "All right. Here's what's going to happen. You're going to tell me everything you know about your brother, including where I can find him tomorrow. Then we're going to make sure we can all get in touch with each other. Clint and I are going to find where your wife and daughter are being held. Then we're going to rescue them for you. If you get any more demands or orders on the phone you will tell us immediately. Got it?"

He stared at her. "I appreciate the help, and I am really desperate, but how in hell are you two going to do that?" He looked around the bar. "I grew up around here. Unless you're three units of Navy Seals or, like, the Avengers, you can't rescue someone from the cartels."

Clint was looking down to hide his smile. Nat didn't bother. "Well. . . we're not Seals." A frown creased his brow, looking from one to the other. "You blow our cover and the cartel will be the least of you problems." She held her hand out to him. "Natasha Romanov."

He stared at her a moment, then took her hand with his shaking one. "Holy shit." He looked over at Clint. "You're the archer."

"That I am. Clint Barton. We're retired, technically. But this seems a worthy cause."

Enrique looked from one to the other a few times. "I just. . . I can't. If you do this I can't ever repay you."

"You don't have to," he said. "That's not why we're doing it."

"Then why—"

"Because in our line of work things were rarely as black and white as an innocent woman and child being kidnapped by a drug cartel for money," Nat said. "What happened to your family is wrong. We have the skills to fix it. We're going to."

"I. . ." He swallowed with some difficultly, and choked out, "Thank you."

She nodded. "Go back your your hotel, get some rest." She pulled out a napkin and wrote her number and Clint's on it. "When you wake up tomorrow, find out your brother's schedule and pass it on to me. We'll take it from there."

One he'd left, Clint locked the door, and put the vodka away. "You okay with this?" he asked.

She waited at the kitchen door for him to reach her. "I am. I meant what I said. Been a long time since I dealt with something this black and white."

"Might be fun. Keep the muscles from getting atrophied."

"Gotta be careful we don't make an enemy or the cartel," she said as they walked up to the apartment. "But other than that, yeah. Should be fun."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 4th to all our American readers. Happy Friday to the rest of you.

This was not fun. 

Enrique had texted them his brother's whereabouts and picture at ten the next morning. Nat had tracked down Julio at a bar even sleazier than theirs. She clocked a few other low level cartel guys at other tables. She slunk into the seat next to Julio, made sure he saw her take a shot of tequila - complete with lime and lick of salt - and from there it was harder to get him to stop talking.

"I've seen you on the beach," he said to her. "You like very little bikinis."

She grinned. "Well. When you look like this, anything more is a crime." She'd pegged him pretty quick as liking aggressive.

Sure enough, he roared with laughter at the comment, putting a hand on her knee. "That's right, babe. You leave just enough covered to make a man's mind run wild." 

She stroked her finger up the inside of his wrist. "That is entirely the point." That got her a grin, and he ordered more tequila.

It went on like that for a while, her plying him with tequila and carefully leading him on. She hadn't lost her touch at this, at least. She'd confirmed her worked for the cartel when he bragged about what a big man he was. When he compared her favorably to his brother's "bitchy gringa wife" she knew he'd had no qualms in leading the cartel to the woman. Now she needed to coax out some possible hiding places and she'd be able to end this little charade.

What she wasn't good at anymore, she realized, was dealing with the touching. No one but Clint had touched her in a sexual way in months. Almost a year. Tolerance for groping was, apparently, a muscle that could atrophy. His hand on her thigh made her vaguely uncomfortable and the oh-so-subtle brushes he'd given her breasts had turned her stomach. She was beginning to suspect she'd have to go even farther to get locations out of him and she really wasn't sure if she was okay with that.

"What do you say we get out of here?" There it was. On the one hand, privacy would undoubtedly loosen his tongue considerably. On the other hand, she'd have to go somewhere alone with him.

She bit her lip, smiling like she was trying to decide. She reminded herself she had a knife in her bra and a garrote shaped like a bracelet on her wrist. She could kill him twice before he knew what hit him. And Jess and Gabby wanted to go home. 

It was that last thought that did it. She touched his knee, stroking lightly. "I'd like that." She slid off the bar stool slowly, letting her skirt ride up a little. "You know a place?"

"Of course." He unabashedly groped her ass as he got up himself, his fingers curling under the hem a little. She shifted to put her arm around him, just to give his hands somewhere else to be. They went out of the bar into the street. 

She heard a whistle in the wind. It could have been a bird, or even just the wind itself, if it wasn't so familiar to her. She didn't look for its source, but she knew it meant Clint was on the rooftop of one of the nearby buildings, watching. The knowledge helped settle her a little, though she imagined he enjoyed watching her get manhandled about as much as she did. She reminded herself why she was doing this again and let Julio lead her through the not-so-nice part of town to what was evidently his apartment.

Despite her many acting skills, she could not feign interest or admiration for the little hole in the wall. She managed to hide her disgust, though, and opened the curtain on the one window to give Clint a better view. "I like the air," she explained as Julio came closer. He cupped her ass again, with both hands this time, and hauled her up against him. "The city is so stuffy sometimes. I feel like I want to get away." She put her arms around his neck and wiggled. "Do you ever want to just go and hide somewhere?"

"There's a place out in the jungle my buddies and I go to a lot. It's a great place if you don't want to be found."

"Really? Out in the jungle?" His hand moved, touched the edge of her underwear, then tried to slip beneath and something in her snapped. She grabbed his ear in one hand and yanked, spinning him away from her, she grabbed his wrist and bent if back, dropping him to his knees. "Is it a great place to hide your niece and sister-in-law?"

"What the fuck?!"

Nat realized then that, for the first time in her life, she had just blown her own cover. She pushed that aside and focused on him. "Gabby and Jess. Where are they?"

"Like I'm going to tell you! I'll get my head cut off!"

"Tell me now and they'll never know who told me. Don't tell me and you'll be wishing for something as clean as decapitation."

He tried to get up, and squeaked in pain as she bent his arm further. "You don't know who you're messing with."

She had blown this. She had totally and completely fucking blown this and now Jess and Gabby were never getting home. She grit her teeth and bent closer to him. "Neither do you. this is your last chance." He whimpered but didn't speak. "You said it was in the jungle. Give me a direction, a road, drive time."

She heard the whistle again, at a different pitch. Then an arrow sailed in through the window, whizzing right past Julio's nose and embedding in the far wall. Julio shrieked, quite literally, like a little girl. "What the fuck was that?"

Nat could only imagine what this looked like from wherever Clint was sitting. Like it had gone horribly, horribly south. "A warning. The next one goes through your ear," she said, though she knew the next one would probably hit somewhere non-fatal so they could still interrogate him.

Julio stared at the arrow in the wall, his eyes huge, and sang like a bird.

*

Clint watched through the window as Nat yanked his arrow out of the wall and left the apartment. He stayed on the roof, watching her, surprised she didn't look up in his direction now that she was done. She tucked the arrow against her body where it wouldn't be obvious and strode towards home. He didn't really want to be noticed in his gear, so they took separate routes, but he kept an eye on her. She was alone and in a skimpy dress and it was late. A group of young men emerged from the shadows, but before Clint could so much as pull an arrow out, she'd unsheathed her knife. Whatever look she gave them, they backed away. 

He beat her home, just enough to be waiting on the steps when she got there. She glanced at him and he watched her jaw flex. He expected her to say something, maybe thank him. But she just held the arrow out without a word.

He took it from her. "What the hell happened back there? Are you all right?"

She still wouldn't look at him. "I'm fine. I got blown. Can I get past?"

Something was very, very wrong. He'd been irritated before, but now he was worried. He was tempted to stop her, but this wasn't a conversation for the stairwell. So he stepped aside.

She hurried past him, soundless on the steps. He followed at a slower pace. Once in the apartment he locked the door. She'd kicked her shoes off in the living room. He heard the shower kick on just as he reached the bedroom doorway. Her dress was off, balled up in a corner. She was rarely careless with her clothes; he'd never met anyone with such an intricate laundry system.

He stared at the closed door for a moment, and decided he needed a little ammo. He went into the kitchen and cut up a mango for her. He put the pieces in a bowl and carried it back to the bedroom. She was still in the shower, so he knocked on the door. "Did you drown?"

There was a long pause, long enough he was starting to worry he might need to reevaluate his plan of attack. Then her voice came through the door, "I'm fine. I'll be out soon." It was hard to tell through the door and the running water, but it sounded a little like she was crying. Or trying not to.

He stared at the door for a moment, and then pushed it open slowly. "I brought mango."

The room was full of steam. She must have emptied their water heater. He could barely make her out, standing in the shower, skin pink from the hot water and possibly from scrubbing. She looked over when he entered and he thought she looked a little steadier. She turned the water off and slid the door open. "I like mango," she said quietly.

He got a towel, and held it out for her. "I had eyes on you nearly the whole time. Did I miss something? What happened?"

She wrapped the towel around herself tightly, tucking in the ends to keep it up. She reached out for a piece of fruit. "I cracked," she said softly, not quite meeting his eyes.

He stared. "You cracked?" He was too stunned for a moment to reply. "What do you mean? You manipulated Loki while he was telling you how he was going to have me kill you." 

"I know!" She put the fruit back in the bowl without taking a bite. "I don't know what happened. I just. . . he was really grabby and it was making me uncomfortable but I just figured I'd power through it. But then we were up in that room and he was touching me and I _knew_ you were watching. He put his hand under-" She ran a hand through her hair. "I just snapped."

"Tasha," he said softly. He pulled her closer carefully, until he could wrap his arms around her. He hadn't liked watching it. He had been holding that arrow aimed right at that guy's eye, and desperately wanted to loose it. It was primal and possessive and maybe as close as he ever got to rage. But it wasn't an emotion he thought she'd appreciate hearing about.

"I blew it," she said into his shoulder, sounding miserable. "I had him. In a few more minutes I'd have had everything I needed. I've never blown an op before. _Ever_. I just didn't want him touching me anymore."

"If you hadn't, I would have.” He knew it was true as he said it. "A minute more and I would have shot. I'd have killed him, and then we'd have nothing."

Her arms slid around his waist then. She leaned on him and he tightened his embrace, supporting her easily. "We're going to have to find a new means of getting information," she said wryly.

He nodded. There was something he'd realized tonight. Something he was afraid to tell her, afraid it would send her back into her defensive shell, afraid she would panic. He'd promised her once that he didn't care, but it turned out he did. "I don't want you doing that anymore," he said hesitantly. "Because it makes you uncomfortable, and because. . ." he trailed off, not sure how to explain himself.

"Because it makes you homicidal?" she offered, the faintest thread of amusement in her voice. Not that she was laughing at him. She was holding onto him far too tightly for him to think she was upset or amused by him. It was the whole situation that was darkly funny. How far they had come in such a short time.

He pressed his face into her hair. "Because you're _mine_."

She stroked his back lightly, soothingly. "I thought - when it first started to bother me, I thought I was just out of practice. That I'd get used to it. And it might be true. But I don't want to get used to it. Not anymore. I like being yours. Only you can touch me like that," she added in a whisper.

It settled over him, solid and real and certain. "I don't want anyone else to touch you."

He felt her posture change, felt the last of her tension ease out of her. Like she'd been waiting to hear that. Like she needed the reassurance that being his, _wanting_ to be his, didn't make her weak. Didn't make her less than. That he'd been just as bothered and that was okay. She lifted a hand and touched his cheek, turning her head to look at him. "When I left I could still feel him on me. I didn't want to touch you until I'd washed him off. Until I felt like me again and not the Widow."

"I want you to forget he existed," he said, and then he kissed her. He couldn't stop. It was a dark and primitive urge. To take her, to mark her. She was _his_.

The little noise she made was part surprise, part agreement and all lust. She gripped the back of his head, holding him to her as she opened her mouth to him. Her body arched into his, suddenly all soft and supple, fitting against him as snugly as possible. She has soaked his shirt so that it was all but transparent, he could feel her move as easily as if it was bare skin.

He framed her waist in his hands, turning and lifting her onto the bathroom sink counter, towel dropping away. He held her face in his hands a moment, to kiss her mouth, and then moved down her throat. He wanted to touch every part of her, so it was the only thing her skin remembered.

Dimly, he was aware of her reaching down and plucking a piece of mango out of the bowl he'd all but forgotten. He heard her bite and a moment later a trickle of juice ran down her throat, flavoring his kisses. He glanced up at her and she met his gaze, eyes dark. He knew her moods now, all the signs her body gave to let him know he was wanted. Right now he read the same feral need in her that was pumping through his veins.   
 Very deliberately, still holding his gaze, she took another bite, letting the juice run down her chin. She held out what remained of the fruit and he obediently took it, sucking her fingers into his mouth. He let her feel his teeth and her lids drooped, mouth opening in a helpless little moan. He leaned down, sucking one of her nipples into his mouth and drawing on it. He reached into the bowl and fed her another piece of mango.

She ate it in dainty bites, until he felt her lips against his fingers. She sucked the sticky juice off one finger, then another, tongue swirling around the digits. She caught his arm in both hands and licked a path down his wrist. Archer's hands weren't the most attractive things, with odd calluses and rough spots. She had never seemed to mind, though. She liked to play with his hands, winding their fingers together or holding them against her skin to admire the difference in tone, especially now that he had a permanent tan. 

He lifted his head to watch her for a moment, pulling his arm from her grasp so he could get his shirt off over his head. He dragged a piece of the fruit all the way up her stomach, and licked off the trail of juice it left. Her breathing changed and he felt her muscles twitch under his touch. He circled her nipple with the mango, then blew on it until it stiffened before sucking it clean. She was gripping the counter with both hands, letting him play, letting him look and touch wherever he wanted.

He cupped hips and pulled her to the edge of the counter, nudging her legs wider with his shoulders. He heard her suck in a breath in anticipation just before he dipped his head. She tasted better than the mangos. 

He lapped at her, tasted her, thrust with his tongue, paying attention to everything but the spot he knew she wanted. Finally, he found her clit and teased her there, first with slow, lazy licks, then more intensely. He felt her legs tremble against his shoulders and she moaned. Her fingers dug into his hair, gripping hard at first, then gentling as she relaxed into what he was doing. 

There were times he liked to tease her, bring her up and then ease her back down. Until she punched his shoulders, until she begged. But this wasn't one of those nights. Tonight he wanted her to relax, to feel safe and let go. He slide two fingers into her, curving them upwards into just the right spot, just the right rhythm.

She gave a broken cry and her fingers tightened in his hair, holding him in place. He felt the moment she gave in, when her trust in him finally won out over her past, her fear. She came around his fingers, against his tongue. He felt the flex of her muscles clenching on him as the rest of her shook helplessly.

He braced his hands on the counter and stood, watching her eye flutter open slowly. He put another small bit of mango in her mouth and kissed her lazily. She cupped his face in her hands, returning the kiss eagerly. Times like this, when she was pleasured but not quite sated, were when she was the most open. The most _his_. She would tell him anything, promise him anything right then. And, because he loved her, he never asked for a thing.

Her hands found his belt and undid it, unfastening his pants just as efficiently. "I'm yours," she whispered against his mouth. "I want to be yours."

For a moment he stood still, letting her slip her warm hand through his fly and touch him. His base emotions warred with his higher ones for a moment, and then he caught her wrist and tugged her hand away, so he could loop his arms under her knees and shoulders and lift her up. There were plenty of nights he could fuck her on the bathroom counter if he wanted to, but it wasn't tonight. "Not here," he said, carrying her back to the bedroom. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, and arranged her in his lap so he could kiss her again. He touched her skin, running his hands down her back, up her legs and thighs. She was warm all over, flushed from the shower and the orgasm and the promise of more pleasure. She shifted, lifting up on her knees and freeing his erection from his slacks, stroking him again. She distracted him with a kiss, then he felt her set the tip of him at her entrance. She slid down, barely an inch, then released his mouth, looking down at him. He saw the teasing quirk of her mouth a moment before she murmured, "More?"

He cupped her breasts, molding them in his hands, but he didn't try to move her. He let her be in control. So instead he whispered, "Please."

She shivered and slid down. He expected more teasing, to have to beg for every inch. But she took his whole length in one move, tilting her hips so she could sit on his thighs. She held his shoulders and stayed still a moment, as if overwhelmed.

He moved just enough to kiss her. He could feel the flicker of her around him, echoes of her orgasm. It was enough that he was content as they were for the moment. Then she slowly rocked her hips, and he couldn't contain the groan that escaped him.

He hadn't known what to expect, if she would want it gentle and slow, or deep and intense. She seemed to be feeling the remnants of their initial primal mood, because she was anything but gentle. She shifted, trying to find a way to brace herself so she could thrust harder, take him deeper. He watched the muscles in her stomach ripple as she moved on him. She gave his shoulders a shove so he laid back. She flattened her hands beside his head and kissed him, moving faster. He dug his hand into her hair, deepening the kiss. "You're mine," he growled at her.

She whimpered, and when she tried to lift her head he tightened his hold on her hair so she couldn't move. The little touch of dominance seemed to break whatever control she had left and her movement grew rougher. "I'm yours," she whispered between kisses. "Yours, Clint. Only yours." She babbled it over and over as she came, still moving on him as she clenched, hips thrusting as if to draw out every second of pleasure.

For a moment there nothing but the white hot stretch of pleasure, except perhaps the feel of her wrapped up in it with him. He opened his eyes as she settled against him, both of them gasping for air. She lifted her head, just enough to meet his eyes. He could see emotions reflected back in her eyes. Love, possession, faith. Something had happened, just now. Something more important than the wedding vows they hadn't taken seriously all those months ago. She kissed him lightly, as if sealing the new agreement. Then she resettled her head on his shoulder.

When he was capable of movement he shed his pants the rest of the way and they shifted to lay properly on the bed, a light sheet tossed over them.

He sifted her hair through his fingers. "I miss the red."

She sighed softly, breath warm against his skin. "Me too. Maybe I could bring it back. I think we're safe as we can be here."

"Dark haired women dye their hair red all the time."

"It's true. I see them everywhere." She stroked a hand down his arm. "I never really gave much thought to my identity. What I thought of as _me_. But I find it hard to be Tasha when I remember the red is gone."

"You should. Not the hair. Well, yes, the hair. But then also give some thought to the parameters of who you want to be."

Silence stretched. He might have thought she had fallen asleep if it wasn't for the movement of her hand and the pattern of her breathing. He stroked her hair and let her think, listening to the breeze rustling their curtains and the distant crash of the ocean.

"It's very tied up with you," she finally said, voice soft. "I told Steve that I wasn't all things to all people. That I could be whatever they needed at the time. You're the only one who's demanded the real me. So when I think of who that is I tend to define it as the person I am with you. It's very circular."

"Who were you when I was gone?" he asked after a moment. "Who are you when you're alone?"

"I was on missions, mostly. Steve needs a friend, an ally. A brother at arms. Fury needs a spy. When I'm on mission alone I'm whatever I need to be then."

"What about when you were at the Tower?" he persisted.

She was quiet, thinking. It said volumes that she actually had to _think_ about it. That it might be difficult to remember. "One of the boys," she finally said.

He shifted so he could look at her. "And how did that fit?"

She shrugged, not quite meeting his eyes. "It was all right," she said, clearly uncomfortable. "I missed you. Stark and Banner don't have our sense of humor." She paused. "Pepper and I went out and did girl stuff, that fit a little better, especially when Hill joined us."

The mental image of her and Pepper and Maria Hill going shoe shopping amused the hell out of him. "Was there a checklist?" Between Hill and Pepper, someone had to have brought a checklist.

"Depended on the activity." She broke into a wide grin. "Hill and I talked Pepper into going to the range once. Then we raided Stark's good liquor. That was fun." She touched his jaw. "That was as close to me as I felt while you were gone."

He was quiet a stretch, thinking. "You don't ask much of me, you know."

Her brow furrowed slightly. "Am I supposed to?"

It was hard to keep the surprise out of his voice. "Of course."

The confusion deepened. "Like what?"

He shifted onto his side, to face her fully. "Everyone has needs. Things they want out of their mate. As momentous as 'please come home, I miss you' to as small as 'I like it when you pull my hair'. You ask things of me so rarely—the real you, not the Widow— that I'll bend over backward to accommodate them, even if I'd rather stab myself in the eye than go caribou hunting in the dark on two hours of sleep."

He watched the confusion fade into something like fear. He could almost see her retreating from the conversation, her defenses going up. Against all logic, he reached out and touched her, curling a hand around her arm to ground her. "But I don't - I don't _want_ you to do things you don't want to do just because I ask. That not - it doesn't seem fair."

"Of course it's fair. And I want to. Because it makes you happy, not because I get something from it. That's how love works. You'll crack yourself open for me, even if it hurts." 

She looked so lost and he hated it. Hated when she had to come face to face with how different she was, how fucked up her life had been. She looked away from him a moment, blinking. He waited, letting her have some distance. Finally she sighed. "None of my books mentioned this." She looked back at him and added in a small voice, "I did like it when you pulled my hair."

"I noticed," he said with a smile. "It's a start." Then he frowned. "Books?"

She glanced down and cleared her throat. "Not all of my beach books are sexy."

Now it was his turn to be confused. "I don't understand."

"Some of them are, ah, self help." She looked almost shy. "On how to have a successful marriage."

He felt something tighten in his chest. They had no framework, either of them. No idea how to do this relationship thing properly. They flew mostly by the seat of their pants, running on gut instinct and their generally excellent sense of each other. She was so guarded, so full of layers of armor and fear, that it took him a long time to figure out if she was serious. If this was real. If it was permanent. Some days he still had his moments of doubt. So the idea that she was. . . researching how to be married managed to hit him right in the heart. "Do they help?"

She shrugged a little. "They talk about being open and communicating honestly a lot. So I've been trying to do that. To talk instead of hide. There was one I liked about how people express love in different ways and that it was important to learn your partner's language and speak it back. That one made sense to me." She glanced at him. "Maybe I missed one of your languages."

"I'm not exactly the most emotive person in the world." He reached up to stroke her arm with his fingertips. 

"I was fairly certain your main language was touch. I've tried to increase my casual touching." From anyone else it might have sounded cold or calculated. But he knew how she was about touching, that he was in an extremely exclusive club in being able to touch her casually at all. And he had noticed more hands on his back or her rubbing his arm as she passed. Little, light things with no ulterior motives. It was actually comforting to know she had been doing it on purpose, as a way to express love.

He leaned in to kiss her. "It's one of those things that's almost always real. Saves me from having to sort out words."

She nodded. "I can understand that." She curled her hands behind his neck, kissing him again, pulling herself closer to him, so they were touching along the length of their bodies. "I'm still learning what I want," she said quietly. "What I like. Because it's never mattered before." She dropped another kiss on his mouth. "But I do like it when you're. . . possessive. Dominant. I know it should probably be the opposite. And I'd still kick your ass if you went all protective cave-man on an op. But other times. . . there's not much that gets to me like that does."

He grinned. "That. That is the sort of thing I'm talking about." 

She returned the grin. "Okay. I'll try to remember."

He stroked her hair out of her eyes, just looking at her a moment. "What you want matters to me. I'm yours, too."

A fragment of that frightened, lost look came back. Being his was accepted, even encouraged. Apparently, it even turned her on. But the idea that he was hers in return. . . that seemed to unsettle her. He didn't think she doubted it was true. Just that it was too much to hope for.

She glanced at his hand and frowned. "We didn't put our rings back on."

He flexed his hand. She took hers off for the persona. He took his off because it interfered with with operating the bow. "We had other things on our minds."

She slid away from him and climbed off the bed, going to retrieve the gold bands from the top of the dresser. She slipped hers on before she rejoined him. When they'd bought them she'd played bubbly, naive tourist, giggling with the sales girl about their whirlwind love affair and elopement. She'd concocted an entire relationship and back story out of the air, claiming later it would be less memorable than two grim faced former assassins. He wondered now if her sudden knowledge and opinions on gold finishes had been the product of some hasty research.

She sat next to him on the bed and caught his hand. She hesitated a moment, then slipped his ring onto his finger. She drew his hand up and kissed the palm, right under the band. "You're mine," she said, still a little uncertain.

"I am," he whispered. "Until my very last breath."

Her throat worked a moment as she swallowed. Then she shook her head a little and cupped his face in her hands. She studied him a moment, eyes bright and damp. Then she leaned forward and kissed him. He pulled her closer. He told her he loved her, and she murmured it back. Then he eased he back down to the bed and showed her.


	3. Chapter 3

Nat woke to the sound of bird song and traffic, sunshine obnoxiously bright against her lids. With a groan, she rolled over and buried her face in Clint's arm to hide from it.

The scent and feel of his skin brought the events of last night back in stark clarity. She felt odd, out of sorts and muddled inside. Relationships were such foreign territory to her. There was no one on earth she'd have bothered for, other than him. She lived in fear of a wrong move. Of doing something to make him realize she wasn't worth the effort. Last night he seemed to be trying to tell her he was in it for the long haul. For better or worse, as the vows went. 

It reassured her and terrified her in equal measures.

Still, right now they had other things to worry about. In the jungle there was a woman and a little girl who wanted to go home. Nat didn't want them spending another night out there.

"Morning," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.

She found his hand with hers and wove her fingers through his. "How did you sleep?"

"Very well," he replied. He yawned. "You knocked me out pretty thoroughly."

"You're welcome." She shifted and stretched up to kiss him, gentle and slow. His hand came up and stroked her back before digging into her hair. She shivered a little at the sense memory the touch caused.

"I need a shower," he said. "And then we can discuss our op."

She nodded. "I'll get breakfast started."

It took them a few minutes to actually get out of bed. She watched him walk naked into the bathroom, and then got up to find some clothes. The shower didn't go on, and he opened the bathroom door again. "Every fruit fly in Venezuela is in our bathroom right now."

She fought down laughter and wrinkled her nose. "Ew." She pulled on a pair of cotton pants and headed for the kitchen, adding in her most serious tone. "The mango was your idea."

"Soon I'm going to give up trying to be healthy and just come soothe you with a squeeze bottle of high fructose corn syrup." He followed her, dumping the bowl in the sink.

"No. It has to be proper fruit. I need to chew." She waited for him to wash his hands before kissing his cheek. "Thank you," she murmured.

"Dealing with bugs and gross trash is on the first page of the Husband Manual."

She pulled eggs and veggies out of the fridge and bumped it closed with a hip. "What a coincidence. Make him a hearty breakfast is first page of the Wife Manual."

"Excellent. I'll be back when I'm clean." He swatted her ass on the way past, making her squeak a little. She was surprised at the heat she felt in her cheeks. She watched him saunter back to the bathroom before turning back to her cooking. Make an omelet. She could be distracted by omelet making.

He came back out ten minutes later, damp and clean-shaven. "So I was thinking."

The omelets were already on the table. She brought the coffee over and sat. "Tell me."

"We may be pretty out-gunned and out-numbered. I thought perhaps a back-up plan was warranted."

She sipped her coffee. "I like back-up plans."

He shoved a forkful of egg in his mouth. "We need to get the ransom money."

She choked on her coffee. "Two hundred and fifty thousand?"

Clint shrugged. "From what Enrique said, it sounds like Jess's father leaves that kind of money laying on the coffee table."

"You think he'll take a call from us where he wouldn't from Enrique?"

"He doesn't hate us. I have faith in your voodoo. If not, we know people who could get anyone up to and including Jesus to take their call."

That was a very good point. She ate some omelet and sipped her coffee as she thought about it. "So, try to get in touch with Daddy Warbucks and get him working on the money. Meanwhile, we'll do a recon on the hold site and see if we can get them out the hard way?"

He nodded. "How far is it?"

"Julio said about an hour's drive from the main part of the city. About a third of that is on unmaintained side roads and trails, so we'll need to be prepared for some hiking."

"We should hike as much as we can-- I don't want to be noticed."

She finished her food and stood with her cup. "I'll call Enrique and get his father-in-law's number."

He stood up. "I'm going to go get us some gear."

They worked separately for most of the morning. Nat got what she needed from Enrique and called his father-in-law, a Roland Chase. She didn't know the name, so he couldn't have been that important, but she trusted Enrique's assessment of the man's assets. It took some charm to finally get Mr. Chase's ear, but once she had him he was eager to listen. She had to convince him she wasn't, actually, with the kidnappers. She thought she even heard a little embarrassment that he had made everything harder by not taking Enrique's calls. 

She hung up with a promise to keep him posted while he "did what he could" to get the money quickly. That done with she changed into some combat gear suitable for the jungle, tied her hair back in a ponytail tucked under a hat and went to find Clint.

A glance at the clock told her it was their usual post-beach nooner time and she felt a selfish little pang that they'd be missing it. What they were doing instead was more important. But she had a feeling that after their chat last night it might have been a lot of fun.

Clint had acquired them a rather raggedy looking jeep, and the back was stocked with gear under a layer of drab canvas. She peeked under the canvas and spotted an assortment of guns, some hiking gear and what looked like a tent and camping supplies. She smiled, refastening the tarp. He was thorough, she'd give him that. "You put bug spray on?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes, hauling herself into the passenger seat. "Of course." Bugs loved her. She'd forgotten the spray once and spent the day after the mission laying in itchy misery on a hotel bed while Clint dabbed calamine lotion on her and lectured her about West Nile. "This, too," she added, showing him the band on her wrist. It smelled strongly of citrus and repelled bugs like nothing she'd ever seen. She'd watched mosquitos change course in midair when coming near it. 

"I hate the jungle," he muttered. She felt a lot less sympathy for him on that lately. He seemed as immune to heat as he was to cold, so he just covered himself with clothing. She made a note to keep an eye on him, lest be be surprised by heatstroke the way he was by frostbite. 

He turned the key and the engine growled to life. Nat hung onto the grab bar on the door and looked out the window as they drove out of town towards the jungle. The tourist appropriate area faded slowly into the poorer side of town, which became sparser and sparser until they were in the jungle proper, bouncing over a roughly paved road. She pointed to the turn Julio had described and he took it.

The new road was even worse than the previous and she was relieved when he pulled off into a thatch of trees so they could unload and start their hike. She rubbed her now sore ass as she climbed out, stretching some kinks out of her lower back.

"The exercise will be good for us," he commented—though as far as she could tell he got plenty of exercise. She particularly enjoyed the one-armed pull-ups.

Right, if she kept thinking like that she was going to get jungle grime in very unpleasant places. She climbed up on the back of the Jeep and helped him unload, strapping on a backpack full of food and water. She had a knife in her bra already and added another to her calf, two pistols with extra magazines and an assault rifle. She drank some water and nagged him to do so as well when he was done loading himself.

They hiked in silence for a while. Every so often he'd stop just to listen to the surroundings a moment. At one point he stopped, turned, and swung his machete over her head. The top half of a snake fell at her feet. She smiled at him in thanks and checked her compass.

They saw the first signs of the hideout about thirty minutes later. Clint slammed a hand out to stop her and pointed out the tripwire a few steps a head of them. The exchanged a glance and changed direction slightly, dodging around the traps. They went uphill, trying to get the best view.

The hideout was three small Quonset huts and two jeeps. Nat counted six guys milling about. Clint scaled a tree to get a better look.

"Not much of a set up," he said when he climbed back down. "We wait until dark, we can take it easy."

Best news she'd had all day. She pulled out her phone to check on it. "No signal." She would have liked to have updated Enrique. "Shall we wait out here or draw back?"

"Let’s back up. I don't want to sit here not moving for six hours." She knew that couldn't be true. He was the stillest human being she'd ever met. He'd lay in the same spot for days waiting for his prey to wander into his crosshairs. She'd seen him sit for longer than six hours crouched on a building ledge. She, of course, would go stir crazy. But she didn't have to admit that, admit a weakness, because he claimed responsibility for it. He did that a lot, now that she thought about it.

It was on her tongue to assure him they could stay if he wanted to set up his perch, but he was already picking his way out, heading west, farther uphill and deeper into the jungle. She sighed and followed him. After about twenty minutes they found somewhere to settle and she dug out the trail mix and water, shoving a bottle into his hand when he made a move to climb again. "Drink."

He followed her orders. "Thank you." He eyed her. "What?"

She chewed with extreme prejudice for a moment, debating whether or not to say anything. Well, they had six hours to kill. "You would have stayed there and nested if you were alone."

"I'm not alone," he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Yes. But you want me to ask you for things but most of the time you don't even give me the opportunity. You know me so well you. . . you anticipate what you think I'd prefer and do it that way. Even though we both know you can sit still for six hours anywhere."

"It's habit," he said after a moment. "I don't mind sitting there for six hours, but you would mind-- yet if I mention _I_ am fine, you will insist that you are also fine, even though we both know you hate it, out of stoicism or whatever the female version of machismo is. And then either you're irritated and I'm distracted, or we have an argument in the middle of the woods." He shook the bottle of water. "If you just warned me about heatstroke I'd insist I was fine, instead of drinking. Habit of training. Show no weakness." 

She stared him down a moment. She had to admit, he had a fair point. Still, she felt like there was more to it. "You-" She stopped and bit her lip. The books said to use 'I' phrases. And to avoid absolutes. She tried again. "Sometimes. I feel that you're -" And she knew him well enough to avoid the word 'afraid.' "Overly cautious about upsetting me. Like you think I might leave or break or something if I get mad enough. That isn't going to happen."

"I don't think you'll leave or break. You might punch me, which wouldn't be a first. But you do. . . I don't know. Retreat inside your walls. If I hit the right trigger. And I still don't have all of them mapped."

"But I don't do that for this kind of stuff," she protested before realizing what she'd said. She swallowed and crossed her arms defensively. "That's more for. . . things like we discussed last night."

"For the other stuff. . . I don't like protracted confrontation. I don't like negotiation or debate. If your way is no worse a solution then I'm fine with it. If it's a hill worth dying on, you'll know it." That at least she knew to be true. If he felt like being stubborn he was impossible to move—and often maddeningly calm while he was at it.

Nat blew out a breath and nodded, swigging back more water. She hunkered down, bracing her back against a tree trunk. "So. What do you want to talk about for the next five hours?"

"Crouching in the jungle strapped with ammo is a very 'us' time to discuss our relationship," he replied.

She shrugged. "It is a place we're comfortable with. We're natural multitaskers."

He reached over to take her hand. "I attempt to anticipate your preferences because somebody has to look out for your happiness. And for most of our acquaintance, it wasn't going to be you."

He was holding her left hand and her ring gleamed on her finger as she shifted to clasp his in return. He'd taken his off to use the bow, but she hadn't had the stomach to slip hers off. Not after last night. If it got caught on something she'd deal with it then. "I know I don't take very good care of myself." She was far better at running other people's lives. Steve's, for example. "I just spent so much of my life taking things from people. It doesn't feel right to take from you."

"It is freely given," he replied. He tugged on her hand. "Can that be one of those languages?"

She studied him a moment, rubbing the back of his hand with her thumb. She nodded, then asked, "What do you get from me? What do you ask of me?"

"Trust," he said after a moment. "To this day I do not understand the source of your faith in me, but it's perhaps the only absolute certainty in my life. Nobody else would have unhooked those restraints." 

Almost unconsciously, she touched his wrist with her free hand. She did trust him. She was proud of how much she trusted him. Going with him that day in Baghdad had been the greatest leap of faith she'd ever taken. And she had never really regretted it. "If I don't have you - if I can't trust you - then I don't have anything."

"Neither do I," he replied quietly.

"After SHIELD fell all I could think about was trying to get to you. I figured you'd have gone to one of our safe spots. As I was making my way down to the border I realized that - that you might not be there." She couldn't say dead. Couldn't give voice to the fear that still occasionally gripped her. "I couldn't see the other side of that." She glanced up at his face. "I have contingency plans for my contingency plans. But the idea of having to deal with the rest of my life without you. . . it froze me." She shook her head. "I didn't sleep again until after I found you."

"I know. Well, I guessed. But I knew the general sentiment." He watched her. "But knowing that is remarkably good at keeping me motivated to stay alive. We all need people. And sometimes we need to know somebody else needs us."

That was still occasionally hard to wrap her head around. Clint wasn't exactly the most gregarious person she knew, but he was still friendlier than her. It was hard to accept that he needed her the same way she needed him. That without her he was alone.

She tugged him closer and kissed him, at a loss for words.

"I think we're square," he whispered against her mouth.

She smiled and rested her forehead on his a moment before leaning back. "I guess so."

He was quiet a moment. "I brought a deck of cards."

Her brow hiked up. "Not gonna talk me into strip, are you?"

"In the woods? Give me credit for some class, honey."

Well, maybe sometime when they weren't on a mission. She held a hand out. "Deal, Barton."


	4. Chapter 4

Darkness came quickly in the jungle, so when the light started to fade, Clint got his gear together. He pulled his arrows out to count an inspect them. He could see Nat frowning at them. They were wood and handmade, with real bird feathers. More Robin Hood than the high tech, carbon fiber missiles of death he usually shot.

She finished checking her ammo and resettled her pack, then glanced at the arrows again. "Why?"

"Well, for one, I don't have an endless supply of the expensive ones anymore. These, I don't have to retrieve. Also, six guys shot by arrows that look like they were made by a Amazonian tribe is going to confuse the hell out of the cartel when they find this place cleaned out."

That made her laugh as they started to hike back towards the hideout. "All six? You aren't leaving me any?"

"It's better for our cover if we avoid bullets. But feel free to crack any skulls you encounter while getting Jess and Gabby."

She nodded in agreement and lifted a foot to take her knife out of its sheath and move it to her belt. She barely paused in her stride as she did so.

They found the same vantage point they'd found earlier. Nat stripped off her pack and rifle and left them there in preparation to get closer. She kissed his cheek. "Good hunting."

"Likewise," he said, and he climbed the tree. The guards had built a fire. Three of them were sitting around it, eating dinner. Two were patrolling the perimeter with heavy arms. He couldn't see the sixth one, and assumed he was inside one of the buildings. After a few minutes, one of the the men sitting around the fire got up to piss in the woods. Clint waited until he was beyond the light, out of sight of the others, and shot him.

One of the most common questions people asked him was 'why arrows?' He had a standard, and very true reply. Silencers actually silencing guns were an invention of Hollywood. Neither SHIELD nor Stark could figure out how to make one, probably because sheer physics simply would cooperate. If you had an explosion, you had sound.

The silence allowed him to pick these guys off slowly, one by one, without anyone noticing. 

When he took the two at the fire, he knew that wouldn't be unnoticed long. He gave five short whistles to Nat, to let her know to go, and how many he'd taken. Looks like she'd get one after all.

He watched her slip through the camp, skirting the campfire. She peek into one building and held up a fist, indicating all clear, before moving to the next one. There she gave the hand signals for one enemy and two civilians. She checked the third hut just to be certain, and signaled it was clear.

She went back to the group at the fire and picked up one of their guns. Walking back to the occupied hut she took position next to the door. Her eyes never left the doorway as she pointed the borrowed rifle out towards the jungle and let off a burst of fire.

 The sixth man leapt out of the door, gun raised. In a few swift, fluid movements Nat had him disarmed and on the ground. He got in exactly one hit, a glancing elbow to her ribs that seemed to visibly piss her off. She had him on the ground, neck snapped ten seconds later. He noticed she rubbed those ribs lightly before slipping into the hut. Dimly, he heard the sound of a woman shrieking, then Nat came out of the hut, carrying a toddler girl and leading a crying woman behind her.

He scrambled down from the tree as they reach him. "Looked like they had radios, I don't know how long between check-ins, so we need to go now," he said. He looked at the woman. "Hi. I'm Clint. Your husband sent us."

She sniffled and nodded. "I know. She - she said." She gestured at Nat.

"We're parked a ways away. You okay to hike?"

For a moment her face crumpled and Nat put a hand on her back. Jess seemed to straighten a little a that. She nodded. "Anything to get out of here."

He handed her his water bottle as they started walking. "We have some provisions, too. If you're hungry."

She nodded and he handed her an energy bar which she chewed while they walked. Nat carried the little girl on her hip and talked to the other woman quietly. Clint took point, walking a few steps ahead so they had a little privacy. Maybe Jess's rich dad would pay for therapy when they got home.

Jess and Gabby both slept in the back of the Jeep as they drove back to town. Nat was able to get enough bars to call Enrique and have him meet them at the bar.

Clint pulled up across the street. "Take them in," he said to her. "I'll go ditch the jeep and be right back."

Nat nodded and rousted the two in the back, helping them climb out. Clint watched them cross the street and disappear into his bar before pulling away from the curve to find somewhere to leave the jeep. By the time he got back with his arms full of gear, she had taken them upstairs to their apartment. Enrique and his wife were on the couch, arms wrapped around each other and the little girl. Nat had gone into the kitchen to give them privacy, but came out when he walked through the door.

She slid an arm around his waist and leaned on his side. "I couldn't get a hold of Mr. Chase. They should probably go to the Embassy for help."

Clint nodded. "Enrique?" he asked, and waited for the man to look up. He didn't comment on the tears, as they were surely earned. "You'll stay the night here, we'll keep watch. First thing in the morning we're going to drive you into Caracas to the US Embassy. They can protect you, and help you get back home."

The other man nodded. "I understand. Thank you." He stroked his wife's hair tenderly. "Thank you," he repeated softly.

"We've got hot water and fresh towels," Nat piped up. "If you want a shower."

"Also, super girly bath products," Clint added, earning him a nudge from her elbow.

Nat took over the hostess duties from there, getting the family set up in the bathroom and changing the sheets so Enrique and Jess could use their bed. He went out to check the perimeter while she did her thing.  
 When he came back she was making a nest on the couch with their spare pillows and quilts. "All quiet?" she asked.

"Our tracks are well covered. I'm not worried." He sat next to her. "We did good today. Unabashed good."

She smiled, soft and real. "Yeah, we did. Wiped out some of the red."

He smiled back. "See? All is not lost."

She reached out and took his hand, weaving their fingers together. "Thank you."

He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. Then he pulled her close enough he could put his arms around her, and settle her against his body. When she put her head on his shoulder, he finally asked, "What for?"

It took a few moments before she spoke, as if she was trying to figure out how to articulate it. Finally, she said softly, "Being mine."

"That I will always be." He leaned over to fish in the pockets of the tac vest he'd set on the coffee table. He pulled out his wedding ring and put it back on. He really couldn't shoot with it on, but he'd brought it with him into the jungle. He didn't know why. He just wanted to.

He looked back at her in time to see a wide smile on her face, probably because she'd realized he'd carried the ring through the jungle with him. When she looked back at his face her eyes were dark, cheek flushed in the dim light. She caught his hand to weave their fingers together again before leaning over to kiss him. For a long time, they just kissed, before he murmured, "I wish we didn't have houseguests."

She made a little noise of agreement, then shifted to whisper in his ear. "Maybe we can get a hotel room in Caracas."

His arms tightened around her. "Consider it done."

*

In the morning Nat made breakfast for everyone while Clint found a car to borrow. She had no idea if it was legitimately borrowed or if he'd need to ditch it somewhere when they were done with it. It was a nondescript beater, about a decade old. It would get them to Caracas without getting attention and that was what mattered.

Enrique and his family didn't eat much, but they all seemed far steadier than they'd been the night before. They were on the road before ten, anxious to have this little adventure behind them.

The drive was uneventful, other than the traffic light in Caracas where someone attempted to carjack them. That was probably overstating it. Three men with handguns tucked in their jeans sauntered speculatively near the car. Nat reached into the footwell to retrieve the TEC-9 she'd stolen from the guy in the jungle, and just put it on the dashboard. Clint snorted as the guys backed away.

"And you told me not to bring it."

"Yeah, yeah. Maybe they just wanted to squeegee our windows." He paused. "Don't take that into the embassy."

"I am not an idiot, Barton."

She wondered idly what the family in the back thought of them. She imagined Enrique had told his wife who they were. Not everyday you got to watch Avengers flirt.

Clint pulled up in front of the embassy and Nat turned to talk to the others. "Remember. Not a word about who we are." They got two frantic nods in response.

They'd debated it during the night, and decided to go into the embassy. Coulson's hacker had filled out their identities with an astonishing thoroughness. A packet with dossiers in it had arrived not long after his visit, labeled 'A Wedding Present'. It included two genuine, unforged US Passports and a note that their biometrics had been removed from all relevant databases, even the NSA. If it was as solid as it looked, it meant they could go anywhere, even back home. But the place to test it was not customs at JFK.

They parked the car out front, stashing their weapons inside it. She had only her garrote, which they wouldn't catch, and felt a little naked.

Boris and Jennifer were ushered through the embassy gates without so much as a blink.

The look Clint gave her was part disbelief and part mischief. As if he was already thinking of the potential in having an actual legitimate ID.

They found a bench to sit on to wait for an agent to tell their story to. Nat was still cataloging exit routes and security weaknesses when Jess gasped and staggered to her feet. "Daddy?" She went sprinting across the marble floor to throw herself into the arms of a grey haired man in a crisp suit.

The man, who she imagined to be Mr. Chase, wrapped her in a hug. "Jessie. I'm so sorry. Are you hurt?"

"I'm all right. I'm fine. And Gabby's fine. These- some people helped us get out."

He glanced at Nat and Clint, his face registering surprise as right now they looked far more like tourists than the commandos he likely expected. "They called me. I brought ransom." He held up the bag he was carrying. He must have flown down there, literally, with a bag full of cash.

Tears were running down Jess's face. "Would you like to meet your granddaughter?"

Mr. Chase looked past Nat, to Enrique holding Gabby in his lap. He swallowed hard and looked down at his daughter. "I would love that."

Nat leaned over to Clint. "We're probably superfluous now."

He nodded, and they turned to head towards the door. Behind them, Chase called out, "Wait."

Her shoulders tightened and she felt Clint go on alert next to her. They turned back slowly to find Chase striding towards them. "Sir?"

When he reached them, the man discretely held out an envelope. "You did not mention your fee. I hope this is satisfactory." 

Nat took the envelope wordlessly and glanced inside to find a check for twenty five thousand made out to cash. She tucked it away and nodded in thanks. Chase returned the nod, glanced at Clint and headed back to his family.

She looked up at Clint. "So. _Nice_ hotel room."


	5. Chapter 5

An hour later, they had exactly that. A large, comfortable suite in a luxury hotel. It wasn't the Ritz, as they were in a third world country. But it was much, much nicer than their bedroom over the bar. Reminded Nat a bit of being back in the US. "I'd forgotten how much I missed room service," Clint said as he flipped through the menu.

She peeked into the bathroom and was impressed at the size of the tub. She let her fingertips run over the bed on her way back to peer over his shoulder. "Is there fruit?"

"Why do you need fruit? You had a good day."

"I like fruit." She slid her arms around him from behind and kissed his shoulder. "I can't have celebratory fruit?" 

"I suppose. You want any real food while I'm at it?"

She kissed his shoulder again. "Get me whatever you're getting. I was thinking I might take a bath." She hadn't had a proper bubble bath since she'd left the States. "They have lots of girly soaps and lotions," she added.

He turned, wrapping his arms around her and sliding them down her back to cup her ass. "Enjoy your bath."

The possessive touch made her breath catch a little, as did the change in his voice. She kissed him lightly, and stepped away, suddenly tight with anticipation. She glanced back at him when she reached the bathroom door and found him watching her the whole way. She grabbed the little bag she'd packed and brought it into the bathroom with her.

Her bath was truly heavenly, hot water soaking into her muscles and loosening any tension she might have been carrying. She could hear Clint in the other room, ordering their food, then silence. It made her smile to think of what he might be imagining while she was in here.

After drying off she rubbed the hotel’s floral lotion into her arms and legs and slipped into the lace and satin nightgown she'd brought from home and covered it with the exceedingly boring white hotel robe. Still fluffing her hair, she went out to see if the food had arrived.

It had, and apparently Clint had ordered enough food for them to host a quinceanera in their hotel room, should they feel like it. Even he looked embarrassed. "I was hungry," he said around a mouthful of food.

Well, at least there would be left overs for afterwards. She sat on the sofa and found her fruit salad. The first bite was sweet and cool and perfect, eliciting a little sound of pleasure. He cast a speculative glance her way, but continued eating his dinner.

They ate in silence, mostly. After the fruit she picked at a hamburger and fries, then curled up with a glass of iced tea as Clint played human garbage disposal. She arranged herself so that just her ankle and calf peeked out from beneath the robe.

"That's some Victorian quality flashing you're doing there," he commented, drinking the beer he'd ordered. "Might I someday see your knee?"

She watched him over the rim of her glass. Very deliberately she reached down and gathered up the edge of the robe. She slid it up to reveal her knee and no higher. "I'm yours to command," she murmured.

He watched her, and she could see his gears turning. Considering the whole picture. "Are you sure there isn't a land mine in there that I can't see?" he asked quietly. It was a fair question. She was probably capable of doing him serious harm in a moment of gut-based panic.

She had given it a great deal of thought while in the bath. Contemplating all the games they could play. Examining what it was about his possessiveness that aroused her. She'd realized it came down to, essentially, trust. She trusted him in a fundamental way she couldn't properly articulate. Except like this. "I trust you," she said, just as quiet, holding his gaze. "You won't ask me to do anything that won't make one, or both of us, feel good." She reached out and set her glass down, then returned to the same position. "I'm _yours_ ," she repeated, very deliberately. "Command me."

He was quiet again. He put his beer down. "Take it off."

She took a moment to carefully check in with her reaction, hunting for any hint of panic or doubt. All she felt was excitement. Anticipation. Trust. 

With deliberate slowness, she stood and untied the robe. She shrugged it down her arms and draped in on the arm of the couch, standing there in black satin and red lace. "This, too?"

He stood up, sliding his hands over the satin. "Unless you'd like me to rip it." The thought sent a jolt through her, and his eyes narrowed. "You would, wouldn't you?"

She licked her lips reflexively, mouth suddenly dry. "Yes," she whispered, unable to look away from his face. She thought he'd tear it with his hands, since he'd torn his share of flimsy underwear and snapped bra clasps. But the was usually rushed frustration. This was clearly different. He pulled out his knife from wherever it was in his clothing, and sliced the satin with a swift, brutal motion.

The sound that came out of her was completely unconscious, primal need. Her breathing turned rough and she was suddenly aware of liquid heat pooling between her legs. She pressed her thighs together in an effort to ease the sudden ache. And in the quickly shrinking part of her mind that was still thinking on a higher level, she realized she hadn't felt even a flicker of fear. He buried his hand in her hair, tugging until she felt the lightest bit of pain in her scalp. He pulled her against him, turning her face up. He liked this, even if he was afraid to. She could tell. There was something like surrender in his eyes when he kissed her.

His kiss was rough, demanding, bending her back with the force of it. She gave into it, the surrender sending new sparks of pleasure through her. She was naked and he was fully dressed, his jeans rough against her legs. Her hands fisted in his shirt and when he lifted his mouth she asked quietly, "May I take this off?"

He didn't reply for a moment, perhaps deliberately making her wait. Then he leaned back and handed her the knife, hilt first. She sucked in an unsteady breath. Part of her wanted to remind him that he was supposed to be the one in charge. But games were no fun if you stuck too close to the rules. And besides, she'd told him she would obey him. So she took the knife from him. 

His t-shirt was thin, blue cotton. He wore them snug, partly to drive her crazy, she thought. With a motion as fast and violent as his, she sliced it open. He took the knife back, and shrugged out the of the remnants of the shirt. Then he glanced down at his belt and jeans, and told her, "The rest of it." He gave orders just like he did in the field. Some dim part of her wondered if she was going to get turned on on ops now.

She reached out and undid his belt, shocked to see her hands were shaking. The belt slid from the loops of his jeans and she tossed it aside. She snapped open the button on his jeans, then unzipped his fly. Her knuckles brushed his erection as she worked and she heard him suck in a breath at the touch. She looked up and caught his gaze, slipping her hands into the waistband of his jeans and boxer briefs. Without breaking eye contact she slowly slid them down, kneeling as she did so. He watched her intently, but he didn't issue any more commands. She supposed he had his limits as to what he'd order her to do. His eyes asked enough, so she took him in her mouth. He grabbed her hair again, letting her feel the tug on her scalp.

She curled her hands around his thighs and closed her eyes as she moved on him. His hand in her hair communicated everything she needed to know: speed, depth, intensity. He tugged sharply when something felt particularly good and she whimpered around him. She released his thigh to press a hand onto her stomach, then lower, pressing into her abdomen as if it would relieve the heat growing there. She wanted to touch herself She wanted him to touch her. And the fact she couldn't, because he hadn't told her to, made the ache all the more intense.

He seemed to notice, and caught her arm to pull it away, denying her even that little bit. He kept tugging on her arm, though, fingers digging into her skin until she got the message and released him to stand. He crowded her closer to the bed, and kissed her again. She melted into he for a moment, until he tugged on her hair again. "Turn around."

The air left her lungs and it was hard to catch her breath. She bit her lip and obeyed, turning carefully so he could readjust his grip on her hair. She kept waiting for panic to hit her, some sort of land mine, as he'd called it. But there was none. To the contrary, this was possibly the most turned on she'd ever been in her life. Her skin was hot, over sensitive, so that every touch sent jolts through her. She ached for touch, for release, and every moment he denied her made the need more potent. At his urge, she bent and put her hands flat on the bed.

A moment later he was inside her-- no hesitation, no preamble. Just one hard thrust. She almost came right then, and had to wrestle herself under control, particularly when he told her, "Don't you dare."

Her arms shook with the effort. She tried to let her head drop but his hand tightened, holding her exactly where he wanted. Somehow she found her voice. "I won't." He still hadn't moved, staying firmly buried inside her. Despite herself, she added a desperate, "Please."

To her surprise, he smacked her ass. To her even greater surprise, it nearly made her lose control. "Please what?"

It felt like her whole body was shaking. He had to feel it around his cock. She licked her lips again, swallowing hard. "Please, fuck me," she whispered.

He pushed on her shoulders, pressing her down into the bed, his weight over her so she couldn't move. Then, finally, he did. Slow, shallow strokes, but enough it made him groan. The friction was too intense. She couldn't take it. "Not yet," he said before she could even ask.

She whimpered in protest, but he didn't let up, holding her still as he moved. Without thought, her hips began to move up to his. She was moaning with his every thrust, mindless with pleasure that didn't seem to have an end. When she began to get close again she fought it, digging her nails into her palms. As much as she wanted to come, she didn't want this to end.

Every time he slid in and out of her it pushed her higher, and she couldn't stop it. "I can't, I can't," she begged him. He told her she could. Everything blurred after that; words, sounds, thoughts, what he made her feel. She couldn't stop it.

She felt his teeth on the back of her neck.

She was fairly certain she screamed when it finally burst. Muscles clenched and shook and she called out his name, begging, though she couldn't have said what she was asking for. She felt him surge into her one last time, felt the heat of his own release spread through her, then he collapsed onto her, pressing her into the mattress.

She felt a sob well up in her, at the sheer intensity of the orgasm. How hard she'd fought it and how good it felt. 

He nuzzled her neck. "Tasha," he whispered.

If he heard her crying he'd never forgive himself, no matter how quickly she explained. She wriggled an arm free and reached up to stroke his hair, not trusting her voice. Her breath hitched unmistakably as she tried to calm. Sure enough, he shifted off of her. "Hey, hey," he said, trying to get a look at her face. His voice sounded unsteady, too.

She reached out and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder. "It's all right. It's good tears. It was. . . intense. I'm okay." The words tripped over themselves as she tried to reassure him.

He didn't apologize. He just replied, "Yeah. It was." He wrapped her in his arms and for a few minutes they just held onto each other, hearts pounding, lost in their own thoughts as they recovered. 

She felt like she should say something, though she was at a loss as to what. Telling him she'd liked it or that it was good seemed rather superfluous. Besides, she wasn't entirely ready to let go of the persona.

No, she corrected herself. Personas were for the Widow to inhabit, To maintain distance. This had been her, every step of the way. Enjoying every moment. This was. . . a game. A facet of themselves they could indulge in. Like her sweet tooth or his love of red meat and carbs. She didn't think he'd let it go entirely either. The hand stroking her flank was soothing, but also possessive. As if he was surveying the territory he'd just claimed.

She settled into it, curling her leg so her thigh rested on his, so that they touched everywhere. "Yours," she said softly, nuzzling his shoulder.

His fingers dug into her skin. "Mine."

Her breath stuttered at the response. She felt worn out and wound up at the same time. She nuzzled him again. "Do you want anything? Your beer?"

"No, Just you is absolutely perfect."

He kept stroking her skin and she sighed, letting her eyes close as she relaxed. The silence stretched and she listened to his heat beat under her ear. Clint made her feel safe in a way an entire arsenal never could.

She didn't know how long they lay there, stretched out sideways on the hotel bed. It was far too early for sleep, but neither of them seemed inclined to move. "I like that I can still learn something new about you. About us," he said eventually.

"Me too," she said quietly. "That was. . . more than I expected."

He shifted. "Sorry. I tried to be restrained. Was the knife too much?" She was pleased he didn't sound panicked and apologetic, instead simply like he was objectively inspecting the boundaries.

"No, the knife was fine. Surprisingly hot, actually. Everything was. I didn't say more was bad." She fidgeted her position a little so she could look up at him. "I'm glad you liked it, that you got into it. Your whole demeanor changed. The way you looked at me, everything. It was exciting."

"We've had plenty of times it started as a sparing match. Or something turned rough enough to require first aid afterwards. I didn't expect to enjoy you. . . not pushing back."

She was concerned she might be blushing. Natasha Romanov blushing at sex talk, would wonders never cease. She traced a pattern on his chest. "I was thinking about what you said. About what I give you being trust. There's a handful of people I trust not to kill me. A smaller handful of people I trust not to get me killed on an op. You're the only person I could trust with this. Even when the knife came out. Even when you wouldn't let me-" Yep, blushing. Dammit. "I know that means a lot to you. I'm not surprised we both find it so seductive."

He lifted her hand up, and kissed her palm over her wedding ring. "I love you."

She stroked his cheek with her fingers and stretched up to kiss him. "I love you back."

*

In the morning, they checked out of the hotel, and walked to the car holding hands. They stopped to deposit the check, and then started the long drive back to their little town. Clint spent most of the drive with his hand curved on her thigh. He dropped her off at the bar and put the car back where he'd found it before returning. He found her cleaning up the pile of quilts they'd slept on the other night. She didn't notice him immediately, humming her lullaby under her breath as she folded. 

He'd noticed a lot of changes in her since they'd come here. She was more at ease in her skin. The armor and walls were there, but she seemed willing to move around them. To take them down when needed. The last few days, there'd been a bigger shift. He thought, maybe, he was starting to see the Tasha there might have been without the walls. Without the Widow and the ledger.

She turned with her pile of bedding and grinned when she saw him. "So. Twenty five thousand should keep up flush a good long while."

He grinned back. She was wearing jean shorts and a tank top, her hair in a ponytail. Nothing about the outfit had any sort of agenda, towards him or anyone else. He wondered if it would make her self-conscious to tell her he found this look particularly hot. "I think we should hire help for downstairs."

There was a flicker of doubt, which he'd expected. She didn't like new people and this place had very much become their space. Safe and insular. But he watched her process it, think the idea out to its logical conclusion. When she was done she nodded. "We'll never get the other rooms ready to rent by Christmas if we don't get some help in the bar."

He grinned at her. "Thank you."

She stored the quilts in a closet and went back to him. "I feel like that was for more than agreeing to the help."

"It's been a hell of a couple of days."

Her face softened and she nodded again, thoughtful, this time. She stepped closer and tucked herself against him, arms sliding around his waist. "You know. We could keep the bar closed one more night. Take a personal health day."

"I have been missing my bikini lunches. Three days in a row now." 

He watched her pupils dilate a little, body softening against his. "That's true. I'm getting behind on my reading." She stepped away, heading for the bedroom, presumably to change. At the doorway she stopped and turned, odd little smile on her face. "Which bathing suit would you like me to wear?" she asked, the picture of innocence.

He grinned back. "The red one." He paused, raising an eyebrow because he wasn't sure she'd comply. "Just the bottom."

There was a pause, just a few heartbeats. He wasn't even sure she breathed. One of her hands pressed against her stomach, just above the waistband of the shorts, then she said, "Yes, Clint," so softly he could barely hear it, before turning back to the bedroom.

The adventure in topless sunbathing turned out to be very productive. She seemed to like it a great deal when he asked her to do something that made her slightly uncomfortable, which in turn made him slightly uncomfortable, and the whole thing managed to turn them both on. She was right, though. In the end it was about trust. About taking down the walls, just for a short time.

Once they got the bar open again, he entertained himself watching her saunter around in her skimpy outfit, smacking any hands that got too fresh. He swore she was letting more than usual through her defenses, just so he could get a show. They were definitely going to need to get help or he was going to end up closing early every night just so he could bend her over the bar.

He supposed eventually they'd come up against something one of them couldn't handle. Some boundary they couldn't or shouldn't cross. But he was content to worry about that when it came. For now she was his, they were happy, and the looks she was giving him from across the room were promising a very fun night.

Clint was pouring a drink for a patron, who turned to follow his gaze. "You've got yourself a gorgeous girl," he man said.

He grinned, watching Nat tuck some cash in her bra. "That I do."

"You mustn't have a jealous bone in your body, her walking around like that."

Jealousy wasn't really something he did. "I trust her completely." Which was absolutely the truth. But there was, he realized, something off about the man. He seemed nervous. He really hoped the cartel hadn't tracked them, and he wasn't going to start making threats. 'Pretty girl, shame if anything happened to her' sort of thing. He didn't really want to have to kill someone tonight. "You want something, what is it?"

The man swallowed hard, and looked up. "I heard you help people."

That had been the last thing he'd expected. Before he could open his mouth to answer the sound of a hand smacking ass echoed in the room. He looked over to find Nat glaring at some college age looking kid who was smiling smugly, hand still on her ass. Clint tensed and the whole bar seemed to hold its breath.

Very slowly, Nat leaned down and whispered something in the kid's ear that made him pale and remove his hand swiftly. Before he could stand, however, her hand snaked down and grabbed the front of his shorts, wrist twisting sharply. She lead him to the door like that, him whimpering and staggering behind her until she released him at the door. She turned back to glare daggers at the guys left at the table until they all stood and cleared out as well.

With the show over the bar patrons went back to talking and Clint shot Nat a grin before turned back to the rather stunned man still sitting across from him. "We've been known to help, from time to time. If it's a good cause."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Nat's adventures will continue in _A Hazy Shade of Winter_ starting next Friday.


End file.
